


magic and reasons why it's illegal

by junieyes



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Gen, I just found out that thedas believes in humorism and I can’t stand for that, Magic, Modern Girl in Thedas, Science, Spirits, can science and magic coexist? find out tomorrow, we are going to science the shit out of this, where are the doctors and scientists pls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23106307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junieyes/pseuds/junieyes
Summary: 1. because it's dumb2. how??3. sCieNce???
Comments: 32
Kudos: 67





	1. BEFORE

**Author's Note:**

> SCIENCE and THEDOSIAN MAGIC. we're going to explore how it works via fanfiction. That is the plot. FOR NOW. I do have plans for including the game content, just not for a few, and not which game we're starting from.... 
> 
> so if you'd like to see a preferable companion cast, or romance option, hit me up in the comments! ill be asking every chap that comes up.

What is magic?

Infuriating, that’s what. 

  
The story starts like this: you are a spirit in a dreamy afterlife with no purpose to serve. There is no greater enjoyment than to simply exist with no concerns or responsibilities to attend to. That you have had to die before emerging in this quiet world is but a vague acknowledgment in the recess’ of your mind. 

  
Your past-time activities consist of staring into the distant and endlessly shifting topography, or knitting. You’re not quite sure where the yarn comes from, but you don’t question that. It does not concern you.

  
This goes on for what is presumably a very long time. Until it doesn’t.

  
There is no explanation; just that one day, you existed as you always had, and at some point you closed your eyes and opened them to a sky you had forgotten. 

  
That’s where magic comes in. Magic could have been whatever it wanted to be. You were dead. It didn’t matter. It had no purpose. It just was. When you were already dead, what did it bother you that things could happen which you had no explanation for? 

  
Magic has no place amongst the living. It _shouldn't_ have a place among the living.

  
But it does. Oh, it does.

  
And you do _not_ like it. 


	2. DAY II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the lack of contractions annoy you, too bad bish. 
> 
> (im sorry. I know how to write trust me.)

You hate it here. Living is too stressful. Now that you have a body, it _feels_ things.

Like hunger, which burns your stomach in the most unpleasant of ways. Or the cold. The shivering is too distracting and of all the emotions it generates, misery is at the forefront, because you have _no clothes_. You apparently could not do yourself the favour of knitting even a pair of mittens while building this body.

It is probably a good thing that nobody is out here with you, lest they are offended by the state of your nakedness. _You_ are only offended because you are freezing.

Then there is that seed of regret that is burrowed into the marrow of your bones and aches so deeply. Alive, there is so much to care for. So many needs to think about. You didn’t worry about these things in the Dream. You didn’t worry about anything. All you had was a lonely, quiet solitude that you withstood with an admirable quality (if you do say so yourself). It was just you, your knitting, and in that far distance, a soft glowing, empty city.

You long for it. Yearn for it. You would rather endure lifetimes of purposeless isolation; no reason for why you were there, or how you came to be in the first place. Losing fragments of memory and eventually yourself as the passage of time moves on without you.

You did not have many thoughts in the Dream. One feeling. One sense which you embodied. A spirit that felt too much was no longer a spirit of itself. The conflicting parts would war at each other until they fused or separated into something new.

But there is no easy remedy for this. You are not a spirit anymore. And you are overwhelmed; you think you are losing yourself.

You must do what you have always done.

Water. The thirst will kill you before the hunger does, though your stomach does pose a serious, if not slightly irritating, threat. Worse that it will have to become a habitual thing – _eating_ , that is – but you will deal.

You find a shallow stream after a half-days walk through the forest. Many breaks are taken at random intervals, of course. You haven’t had to walk in – well, you don’t know. Just that it has been far too long.

But priority one has only been half solved. The water is pleasantly cool on your hand and you find momentary joy in making small splashes. Momentary, because you suddenly realise you have no means to boil the water and no medium to do it in.

Your plans are foiled. Clearly, the universe has something against you.

You move on. Heat is next. You have experienced only one night so far and you are quite certain that your nipples will off if given the opportunity. Fire is what you need. It will also have the bonus side effect of solving one half of your water conundrum.

From the dregs of your memory, you collect enough rocks to form a circle, sticks that stand up like a pyramid, and dry matter; leaves, dead moss, and grass which you stuff beneath the sticks. The build inspires no small amount of doubt.

Now comes the thankless task of trying to start it up. You find two sticks, stab one atop the other, and furiously begin to rub it between your hands. Not like that, dirty mind!

All you’re rewarded with is a trail of blisters along your palm. It has only been one day and already you have failed at living.

You decide you can worry about fire later. The sun will still be out for several more hours.

Water. Heat. Shelter. It would be nice to sleep on a bed in a fancy hotel and room service that you’ll never use. But this is a forest. All you have is a bed of moss and tree trunks that make for poor wind barriers.

Building a shack is somehow easier than starting up a fire. You find a sharp rock, hammer at some durable but thin looking trunks, and tie the wooden frame together with stringy but sturdy root and vine. Shingles made of long grass and leaves is easily assembled, if time-consuming, and hung up to provide moderately decent roofing. There is only enough time in the day left for you to collect the materials needed for one wall. It is not much, but it is progress.

The fire is all that is left.

With only small reluctance, you settle onto the ground and start rubbing down the stick. It’s not that you’re doing it wrong – you’re not stupid, the practical application may be beyond you but the science is not – it is just that you suck. Your embers never quite catch aflame. They smoke up and spark a little, but refuse to do anything more productive than that.

And no, you did not forget to blow on them.

Distress begins to creep up on you as the sky quickly gives way to night. The last thing you need is to be caught out in the cold again. You throw your stick at the sad fire pit in a fit of frustration.

It catches on fire. It hums.

You stare at it.

What.

What?

 _What_.


	3. DAY III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't know why i didn't post this earlier, I came on to my doc and realised it was just sitting here

Is it cold, sitting as far away from the crime-against-nature as you can, but still within the shade of your new shelter?

Yes. Your extremities are surely to fall off in your sleep.

But will you do anything about it?

No.

The unnatural fire spits out tiny flecks of ember. You are convinced it is taunting you.

You have not tried to reproduce the effect. Too wary of something that defies everything you know. So of course, you sit there all night, huddled with your knees to your chest and your arms wrapped around them, keeping an eye on the pulsating flames.

You fall asleep at some point because when you come to your senses with a hard jerk and bleary vision, the fire has gone out. Your pit is reduced to a sad pile of ash. You are almost tempted to relocate somewhere else in hopes that it was some – some sort of fluke of the environment, but logically you know that is a stretch too far.

You reconsider what happened.

You tried to make a fire the natural way. You failed. After several attempted failures, frustrated, you threw a stick at the pit and it lit up on its own.

With great hesitance, you connect your upset feelings to the sudden ignition. Self-delusion is not a trait you possess. There is only one wait to find out. If it doesn’t work, you will look (and feel) a little stupid but at least nobody is here to witness it. If it works... you have not thought that far ahead.

Investigation one, commencing.

Hypothesis: you are capable of starting fires under the influence of certain emotions and engaging in particular actions.

Method: get angry and throw stick.

Materials: You. Stick. Firepit. Feelings.

Start with a control. You construct a new fire pit. You find a new stick. Materials taken from the same area you previously gathered from the day before. You attempt to hand drill a fire. Does not work. You throw the stick just like you did last night.

Nothing happens. You repeat this twice more. Nothing still.

The control done. Next step.

You do it all again, except this time you give in to those feelings of uselessness and frustration as it fails to work. Your cheeks are flushed hot and you want to throw yourself onto the ground and wiggle around like a boneless chicken breast. When the restless mounts to a point, you finally fling the stick at your fire pit.

Nothing. Naught. Zero. Zilch.

You slump onto your heels, not sure if you are relieved or disappointed.

You try again. And again. And again. Agh!

Stressed and severely agitated, surrounded by more unlit campfires than one person could possibly ever need, you throw your hands and slap them aggressively against the ground.

With a pop and a crackle in your ear, startling your skin into distinct gooseflesh, the fire pit bursts into sunset and heat with great intensity. You make a noise and scramble back.

You stare.

Well. If there is one thing you take from this, the stick is not a contributing factor.


	4. DAY IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't reply to all of your comments, but I appreciate you guys so much. I wasn't expecting this to get any attention at all because that's not what I'm writing it for, but it makes me so happy that some of you thought it was good enough to drop a comment <3

Despite the devastating evidence from the day before, you give the ole’ stick a few more times. You even mix it up by drawing a groove into some wood. Your first natural fire is born this way.

Should have done it like that from the start. Maybe you would not have prolonged it over, but for the moment?

Trying to narrow down the specific feelings, actions and circumstances that trigger the spontaneous combustion is more time consuming that one would think.

You are, quite frankly, getting tired of being angry all the time. You are also quite tired of making so many damn fires. The rate at which they ignite varies, how large or forceful they present must be considered, and trying to measure how you feel is finicky at best.

How do you even measure anger? Yes, angry enough to stomp on the disobedient firepit and feel vindicated at the pain of stubbing your toe, but not angry enough to break a knuckle as you beat the shit out of it instead. Or angry enough to glare at the ground for an unanswered amount of time, but not enough to roll around in the dirt and shed furious tears.

You cannot just stick it with a ruler, observe it for colour change, and check salinity levels.

It is impressive that you have even been able to muster up anger for as long as you have now.

(Merely a day, but it feels longer.)

It is hard to stop yourself from becoming expectant. Because the more expectant you become, the less anger you can produce, the less likely you believe a fire to start.

Assuming, of course, that anger is the main motivator.

That thought does not inspire confidence in you. You try to suppress this doubt. Science is not here to please you.

But, you must admit as you sit here wearily, surrounded by fire and smoke and the ambiance of nature, a chill settling across the forest floor as the bold sun descends beneath the crest of the furthest treetops within sight, preparing to lay light upon the inhabitants on lands you cannot see, that it is… nice. Here. Sometimes.

Even if the world does not listen to you. It is too solid for that; unmovable, unbreakable. It does not bend to your will. Not like the Dream.

You’d forgotten what it was like to live in a world like this. The sounds of traffic and city smog are too far away for you to remember as anything other than a footnote in a past life. Only that one time, it had existed.

It is just you here. You and nature.

It is… lonely. There is no prose for it.

You must move on.

Anger is not sustainable. You have only been exploring the _how_. You are nowhere done with it; you need to expand your search. And then eventually you will ask yourself the _why_.

Why are you here? Why have you come here? Why can _you_ do this? Why can it be done at all? There are a lot of why’s, you realise. None have an answer. Yet.

For now, you will simplify and content yourself that everything has evolved for a purpose. Even if they no longer serve that purpose. 

Like the appendix.

You are not convinced it has any reason to be here anymore other than to cause pain, misery, and mild inconvenience.

But that is neither here nor there.

Tomorrow you will tackle passion; it feels like the next step. Other strong emotions easily conjured.

For today, enough is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anybody is interested in a short read on what the appendix might actually do: https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2017/01/170109162333.htm 
> 
> more of a somber chapter i guess


	5. DAY VII-VIII

Intent. Desire. Conviction.

Just three of many synonyms you have narrowed the cause to.

It has been many days of testing and drawing your findings into the muddy ground, and you have come to the conclusion that you hate it.

You were correct that anger is not the sole instigator. There is none. It is a mix of many things that you believe fall under a muddy umbrella, and willpower is at the top.

Beyond that, you have nothing else conclusive. 

You do not know what to call it. It is not possible to generate random reactions into reality through pure will. Or any will at all. That is not – it is not scientifically _possible_. This is not a fantasy book. This is not how the world works.

And yet–

Your hand is on fire. _Again_. You frown upon it with disapproval.

It does not move. Or hurt. Warm, but not hot. Just very, _very_ warm. It seems quite content to sheathe your hand and do nothing. Lazy bastard. This is upsetting and illegal.

It produces a yellow flame. Incomplete combustion. Confirms the presence of oxygen, hydrogen, and other elements at least, if you were unsure… unless these are different elements in the works yet with similar or identical properties…

You are not in a position to investigate that. You must accept that there is a science out here in desperate need to be understood.

There is no answer in this attractive emission of heat when you ponder the question: why is it that will can move a shroud of hydrogen to settle above your hand and ignite a reaction? You are not quite sure if that is even what _is_ happening.

You are also not quite sure why it is _you_ that should have any say in this process at all.

And that _noise_. Not music or a voice. Not a single hum nor harmony. It is not heard so much as it is… already in your head? Like it is there already, has always been there. It does not come from any direction; ambiance, like cicadas from the grass, the walls, your pillow. It slips away from focus when more interesting things take hold of your attention.

If only you had something other than dirt and a stick to put down your thoughts and theories…

You turn and see the endless expanse of wood at your disposal. Now _that_ is an _idea_.

**.. - .----. ... / ... - ..- .--. .. -..**

The last time you made paper, you used… paper… as the main ingredient.

Today, you improvise. With your trusty rock, you hack away at a tree, pulling off the outer layer of bark and thin chips of the nice inner stuff. It takes more out of you than you thought it would; you sway, stop what you are doing to settle down and breathe, see orange behind closed eyes and the warm press of the sun’s hands on your cheeks, and continue to hack on. It is easier to ignore everything when you focus on the objective.

Of course, it is when you have collected a pile on the ground that you realise you need somewhere to put it all. Such as a basket. But preferably a pot. Because water. This body has needs, and your pee has been alarmingly yellow as of late.

The paper is put on hold so you can locate a clay bank and create some pottery.

You are highly reluctant to admit, but the spontaneous combustion is quite handy. No need for blistering up your fingers, no more backaches as you hunch over desperately trying to make it work, and no more shivering at midnight as the chill sets in and you are reminded that you are very, very naked and mortal.

There is something quite about it, poking at shards of burning wood, the warmth of a fire sweltering in your face, and a starry night and full moon crawling above your head. Time staggers by as you watch many clay pots dry and harden; more wood is added on top, food for the fire to grow. You can only make attempts to simulate a kiln. The exact science of ceramics that comes after ‘hot’ is beyond you.

When you wake up, because you seem to have developed a habit of falling asleep without intending to, the fire is reduced greatly. It is a small miracle that you have yet to burn down this forest.

The pots all clink when you give them a light tap with a stick.

You celebrate your ceramic victory with a small sip of boiled water. Ah, how refreshing it is to drink without the threat of disease and brutal death. Tea would have been preferable, but the surrounding flora inspires nothing but uncertainty in you. Hot water is better than poison. You think you would remember it this time. You would rather not.

Despite the new addition to your diet – the _only_ item in your diet - your mouth is still tacky, your eyes are weary, and your head continuous to throb on mercilessly. But the emotional toll of dehydration beginning to set in rescinds. A wash of a relief that you did not know you could feel rolls over you.

You can practically feel yourself rejuvenate, quite like a little indoor plant sitting on the window sill directly within reach of the sun whose owner continuously forgets to water it despite looking at it every day and appreciating the pleasant – albeit withering – aesthetic.

…

Yes, quite like that.

That is one out of three necessities covered.

You decide not to think about food just yet.

In the largest pot, you bring water to a boil and soak the thin shreds of wood you have collected. You have no idea as to how long they must steep for, but a days’ worth sounds like it should do it. While the water gurgles and occasionally spits at you, you set out to finish your shelter under the light of this new day.

You had gotten too carried away with experimenting that you had neglected your other objectives. Every night has been filled with regret, but nothing has been done to change it.

Although you do not remember falling asleep, you know that it is usually an unpleasant rest. A result of a lack of adequate bed and shelter?

You are always waking up uncomfortable and more tired than the day before. This body is more resilient than you had thought, but soon enough the back pain will be too irritating to live with. You cannot stand for that.

Science is set aside in favour of the more practical and laborious demands of your lifestyle. Building a handmade and natural shelter is not a skill you have previously honed, and there is no theoretical knowledge in that noggin of yours that is applicable other than the ghosts of childhood adventure – but, if you do say so yourself, you think you have done quite well.

You stand back and stroke your chin, quite impressed with yourself. You have only stubbed your toe twice, developed a maximum of seven blisters, and possibly torn only one ligament, but the pay off is worth it.

This shabby little hut is what you now call ‘Home’.

Inside is a pile of grass hay that you call a bed. Slightly itchy, very strong smelling, but it beats sleeping in the dirt.

Outside, the fire goes on. It costs little to supply wood. You have left a wide enough opening so that you can peer out to the fire from within the confines of your new home. Not too close that you will wake up and find yourself in a smoldering mess, but near enough that you are not bereft of light.

The pot of wet paper bark stews near the fire.

When night approaches, you lay yourself down and curl into a still ball. You stare into the fire. It is boring. You do not understand why people enjoy camping. You wonder if people still exist.

The sudden macabre thought is unsettling.

When sleep finally comes for you, it is because you want it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the reviews you guys <3
> 
> if anyone is willing to answer or is interested...
> 
> So I've kind of narrowed down to what I would focus on depending on what point in the timeline anyone is interested in?
> 
> Origins - we can deal with some more biological science, the blight, greywardens, etc, IDK if MC will be THE Warden, or just a side companion, but we can totally go into the what happens after the Blight.
> 
> DA II - this one will probably be more chemical with a dash of physics (maybe) as there are a lot of years for experiments and going into more in-depth research by MC. I plan to take them to Kirwall with this. Considering that around 10 years pass, there's a lot of opportunities to do a lot of things. Also, I figured that if anyone was interested in other themes like romance/family/friendship, this timeframe and place would be the best place to put it. (Hawke/OC anyone?)
> 
> Inquisition - we can do a lot of delving into the Fade, tossing in some religion and spiritual faith and it's presence in Thedas. A lot of research into Lyirum VS Red Lyirum too. Might try my hands at revolution XD nah, tad bit politics. I think I might do the cliche and shove MC into becoming the Inquisitor but it's not a hashed out thing yet. Battle of the Magic between MC, Solas, Dorian and Vivian XD
> 
> Beyond these, just know that I love doing AU's, more than what is already presented, so don't expect an exact retelling or events from a different perspective. I love fucking with things and seeing how stuff will change as a result of MC's presence and nosiness.


	6. DAY IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> idk ive been sitting on this one for a while, same with the next chapter. i think this is the best its gonna get so here ya go

**DAY IX**

The papermaking comes out as well as you expect it to.

And by that you mean not at all.

Beating the soggy bark has no effect. There are a few reasons why this could be:

  1. You did not beat it long enough.
  2. You did not beat it hard enough.
  3. You suck.



Staring resolutely into the distance, you remind yourself this is not a laughing matter. These are all very serious and legitimate reasons. Very serious indeed.

…you snicker.

Who are you kidding?

Not quite sure what to do with your underwhelming attempts, you lay out the sheets of poorly beaten bark onto the flattest surface available to you – a large stone with a relatively smooth top. Placed right in the middle of your camp, you have taken to sitting on it and pondering the mysteries of the universe (and campfires). Your thoughts have not taken you far.

Standing under the hot sun, hands propped your hips, staring at the drying bark, you find yourself not quite sure what to do now. There would be no point in continuing your investigation, lest you forget everything you have already covered so far by learning new things. Documentation needs to start before you can progress (or fail to) any further.

You wrinkle your nose. Your stomach grumbles. The forest watches in silence.

Yes. That has some merit. Food. Brilliant idea. Fantastic. Did not think of it before. Very creative. Who would have thought?

… your shoulders deflate… how, exactly, does one attempt to secure a food source, anyway?

As you turn around and stare blankly at the endless sea of abandoned campfires made during your desperate, feverish search for an answer, no shoreline in sight, it comes to your realisation that you should be dead.

…

That was harsher than intended. But it is true. It has been a long time since you have eaten. Long enough that you think you have almost forgotten the process. Food was not necessary when you were but a bodiless, floating remnant of what you had once been.

You had certainly realised that you have not eaten since you woke up here, had acknowledged it and simply stowed the information away for later, but now when it is day nine of however many more, the truth that you have accidentally ignored is now the focal point of your attention.

You should be dead. You have not eaten for _nine days_. You are running on energy from a source unknown.

It makes you want to sit down, think, and lament your newfound dilemma.

You do not.

For one, you are still waiting on the paper to dry. Your thinking stone is occupied.

Two, this is exactly what you said you would not do, lest you forget everything else and suffer your tiny pea brain trying to remember all of your previous observations.

Three… if this is not a direction to what your next move must be, then you do not know what is. The universe is telling you something. It is telling you to find food.

Whatever force that is keeping you alive longer than what you should be capable of – you do not wish to test it. You do not wish to test _yourself_. It is entirely possible this is a result of your own being and that… unnerves you more than you are willing to admit.

Your entire existence unnerves you. And like many things that do, you put it on hold to re-examine at a later date. Stick it in the mental freezer and thaw it out when you are ready. Like that last frozen pie in the freezer that you would only eat as a last resort and out of pure boredom.

A fitting analogy for the current situation.

But trust. You will come back in time. It is simply too early to have an existential crisis, you decide firmly and wisely. When you are not on the hinge of starvation, and lacking of other needs for a semi-decent quality of life, you will come back to this topic. You promise.

On to the matter at hand – or rather the lack of matter. Food matter, that is.

Your stance continues. Plants are out of the question. You do not trust yourself to correctly identify anything non-poisonous, granted anything around here is edible to begin with. You find yourself hesitant to call this a rainforest. Maybe just a _forest_ forest. It is very… forestry. Many trees. Many green. You make no attempt to place what country you are in, let alone the continent. Local flora is completely out of the question.

The relevant skills you _do_ have in order to cultivate a harvestable plant is further disciplined to a small area and controlled conditions; corn, beans, lettuce, and a backyard garden. Nothing ever turned out particularly fruitful mind you, if the vague memory serves correct. The image of withering crops flash behind your eyes for a mere second; there are no flowers or satisfying looking vegetables.

You would not know the first thing to do with a yam or its cousin.

Several thoughts seem to think the small river and lake must have some merit, but eventually you settle that away with a hard no as well. Other than the boggling concept of trying to catch even just one (slimy!), you know enough about marine biology to understand that fish can be poisonous. You have no idea which fish. But they can be, and that puts you off from this route entirely.

Which leaves you with meat.

With a poor grasp of geography and the fauna that follows suit, the simple solution is to prepare for everything. If animals even _exist_ (although you have no proof as to why they would not). None have made an appearance in these past nine days. Whether they are present is yet to remain seen, but you will make do and behave accordingly. The birds that you have heard is just that – heard but not seen.

(Do shrooms cause auditory illusions? But you have not taken any shrooms… none that you can remember…)

It is time to put your creative pants on and get to work.

But not literally. Because you do not have any pants at all. If you were lacking in things to do…

Searching your bank of knowledge reveals no hints towards making a useful and effective snare. In fact, there is nothing at all that indicates an ability or understanding on how to find any means of food source for survival.

Survival, after all, used to hinge on a short drive to the grocery store.

This does not stop you from trying.

The first trap you make is more likely to work in a children’s cartoon than real life, but you are not above trying any and all means necessary.

The materials are quick to find. All it is is vine, and you have that in plenty; the trees surrounding your camp are draped in them.

Bending several wimpy sticks to make a frame, you start to weave the vine around into a basket. Up and down, down and through, over and out, up and down, down and through, over and out….

Fingers sore from the hard labour – everything is hard labour on your soft hands. They are wrecked with blisters and chipping nails – but the times goes smoothly. Your head is quiet. It is just you, alone in this forest, only the trees and the birds above for company. The sun often has difficulties piercing through the upper foliage, but today it is bright. You wish you had a hat.

The string crafts come easily, if with a slow and unsteady start. The muscle memory does not exist, but the feeling of a once well-tuned ability does. To weave feels right.

It is a holdover from your past.

Vine is a difficult and reluctant medium to use. You are also very much out of practice. The first basket, or tiny hut rather, is of poor make. There are more holes than you would like, but it should work all the same.

You make four more – can never be too prepared – each one going quicker than the last, each with increasing quality. Getting crafty, you wrap several stones around the circumference of each basket. If this will work as intended, you know not.

The plan is to set them like a hinge on the forest floor, propped up by a stick. Should a small creature suddenly decide to rehome itself, or curiously investigate the unusual and unnatural contraption, they will hopefully knock over the stick and find themselves entrapped within a vine-y confinement. The rocks are for extra security. These creatures may be smarter than you think. It seems too easy to upend the basket and escape.

You cannot afford to be one-upped by a family of rodents.

With that in mind, and with a grave manner more befitting of a funeral than rabbit hunting, you set about laying down your traps. Most go into strategic positions – you have paid extra attention to the forest floor and can faintly make out a worn path that has to have been made my something small – while one goes directly next to what you hope is a burrow. Whether it is a bunny burrow or something more nefarious is yet to be seen.

Rudimentary traps in place, you immediately begin to work on making a spear. You are under no illusion that you will be able to throw the thing and be successful at it. No, your plans are less of the throwing-and-staking kind and more of the hit-it-until-it-dies kind. A sword would clearly be of more use, but, well.

You do not trust yourself not to kill yourself with one.

(also, how would one even go about making one?

there is a tiny niggling in your head telling you to make a crafting table and collect one stick and two stone.

you have many reasons as to why this would not work that you refuse to indulge in)

The rest of the afternoon is spent looking for the perfect stick. Not too tall but not too short, straight enough that it too much will not be needed to be filed down, and something lightweight enough for you to carry.

Of course, as is with nature, this is nigh impossible to find. Instead, you find something as close as possible to what you need. It’s a little bendy for sure and weighs more than what is probably advisable, but nothing a little carving and sanding cannot fix.

Using the rock with the sharpest edge in your possession – which in truth is not very sharp at all – you go ham and start shaving all the impurities. It is slow going and very careful work. You beat off the offshoots, chip off the first coat of bark (which you collect in one of your many clay pots; to use for future paper-making attempts, or other experimentation – you are not a wasteful person), and with great focus and the help of another rock, you tap down and carve out the spearhead.

Nightfall comes, yet either craft is not yet done. The paper, after a few tentative pokes, you find to still be slightly damp, and the spear requires more refining. A lot more refining.

In the firelight – which you start up with your peculiar, nature-defying trick because lighting it the right way is clearly an impossible feat – you run a rough stone down the grain of the spear. In truth, you have no evidence that ‘sanding’ in this way will work, but it is not like there is a conveniently placed DIY/hardware store nearby. If there was, you would have visited every day since your awakening here.

(you would more likely never leave such a place. You would seek shelter and hide amongst the shelves. Become one with the plyboards and paint samples)

You only stop when your eyes begin to droop, and your back begins to ache. Dropping your tools where they are – a few paces from the dying campfire, just outside of your little shack, which has begun wilting sideways, to your consternation – you crawl onto your flattened bed of hay.

With little fanfare, consciousness is turned in favour of sleep.


	7. DAY X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> does anybody know how to add images into a chapter? or even the notes? I've seen it been done but Im not sure how to do it. I drew up this funky little map of the campsite/homebase and it just cracks me up. It's the lowest effort thing I've ever drawn and I need to share it with everyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does anybody know how to add images into a chapter? or even the notes? I've seen it been done but Im not sure how to do it. I drew up this funky little map of the campsite/homebase and it just cracks me up. It's the lowest effort thing I've ever drawn and I need to share it with everyone
> 
> I think this is properly edited, but I'll probably find all the mistakes when I wake up lol

There is a dilemma. Two dilemmas, actually.

You are crouched between two trees, covered partially by a fern-like plant, feeling like a weary soldier standing on vigil, a heavily mustached guard at his post, a painter trying to paint the seam between floor and wall.

Something ribbits nearby. Flies buzz around your head. Your fingers cramp as they hold your DIY spear up like a pitchfork.

The rabbit nibbles on tiny wildflowers, unaware.

With great certainty, you are sure that if you hit it very hard a couple of times, it will die. The shock will be so overwhelming it will be unable to do anything but lie there prone and helpless. For the first time in this new life of yours will you eat. You almost salivate a little.

However.

The first dilemma is that you are stuck.

If you move, the fern will crinkle, the bark will scrape, and your joints will probably crack in relief. The rabbit will know you are there and run away, and you are not exactly the epitome of fitness to be able to chase after it. That is also slightly pathetic and you are trying to retain _some_ sense of dignity, thank you. It is already a weird thing to go hunting naked, but that is very low on the priority list for you.

The second dilemma is, well.

The rabbit is cute. Too cute. You do not want to kill it, let alone _eat it_.

That leaves you to sit and stare and do nothing for some time. Long enough you think you might develop a clot in your legs. And when the rabbit hops next to you and curiously sniffs your foot, you shamefully acknowledge that there is a third dilemma.

-

-

“Home,” you announce, with a very crusty and unused voice. It is the first thing you have said since awakening. You wave a hand in an encapsulating gesture.

The rabbit does not say anything.

You bring it around the irregular site, showing off your sleeping hut, which comes up to your chin (there is really only enough room for curling up and sleeping inside; the rest of your life is spent outside). It sits in a rather odd place, not quite right in the middle but slightly off, as the center of your campsite is the main campfire that you use for heating and the occasional pot making.

Next you show off your thinking stone, which is opposite your hut on the other side of the fire, possibly three to four meters away. You pat the sheaves of paper. They are cold; you cannot tell if this indicates wetness still, or if they really are just cold. It is only early morning. Hopefully when the sun rises higher – which you have finally realised comes from behind your hut, which must be east – and the temperature gets warmer, they will be dry completely.

With a free hand, you take a small drinking cup full of water that you collected after waking up and have already boiled and try feeding it to the rabbit.

Nose twitching, it leans forward out of your hold and sniffs all along the rim (and your fingers) before gently dipping its mouth in and drinking.

Besotted by the sight, you hereby declare its name Toft.

You know. Like a tuft of fur. It is cute, right?

(Creativity is clearly not of your stronger suits.)

Toft is your family now. She is the only thing you have in this lonely world. If anything were to happen to her, you would probably do something drastic. Like, die, maybe.

Feeling very content with yourself, you sit on the ground and cuddle Toft as she drinks. Can life get any better than this?

-

-

At midday you reluctantly leave Toft at the campsite, making sure she has a wealthy supply of food and water, and head away in search of food.

You hope to find something ugly. Ugly enough to kill and eat. You would not be able to bear the weight on your conscious of killing something so adorable. 

All of the traps you’ve made are empty. One is fallen on its side. You are unsure if that is a good thing or not, but set it up again.

Pulling yourself up from your bent knees and back on to your feet, you sigh and scratch your head, squinting balefully at the forest around you. Sunlight litters forest floor like bright confetti, and the air is lightly muggy.

You are not quite sure what to do. Finding Toft was a happy accident. Feeling somewhat adventurous, you make the decision to venture further away in hopes it will lead you someplace more populated.

Marking the path with knotted bows in the vines, you walk, and you walk, and you walk. You keep walking and do not stop, not until your feet start to hurt and your arms start to hurt from carrying the spear.

The ground has become less flat and more unique; there are hills to walk up and large tree roots to jump down to. They spread out far and wide, oftentimes like bridges across steep gaps or occasional pools of dark looking water. The trees begin to space out, but as they do, the larger they become. When you reach out and pat the wood, it feels ancient. You have never seen trees as large as these. You wonder how old they are.

Less are the bushes and ferns, the floor littered with many a dead leaves and sparse, dull-looking grass.

Birdsong is far and few between, and the light seems… duller. An unusual hue of sorts clings to the air. You are not quite… unsettled, but there is something disquieting about this part of the forest. It is unlike the peaceful reprieve that surrounds your home.

You look around wearily, clutching your spear to your chest. It is quiet. You get the startling sense that you are unwelcome.

Eyeing the far distance, you spot a solid looking shape that does not quite resemble the nature around you. Squinting helps very little. Whatever it is appears less like a broken trunk and somewhat more like a pillar, you think. It is too straight and upright to be a tree. Too disciplined to belong to nature.

That odd sense intensifies.

Not wishing to provoke the feeling any further, you turn back. You cannot walk faster enough, following the markings you made on your way out here. It is difficult to say when, but the heaviness starts to dissipate, the birdsong becomes louder, insects start creaking, and frogs start ribbitting once again. Green is green again. Even the grass is softer now.

You are not quite sure what that was, but you know that you will not be going that away again.

-

-

The more the sun moves west – presumably west – the more your stomach coils. Fauna is sparse. Very sparse. You have not seen anything since you found Toft this morning. A lucky fluke.

How will you ever find food? It seems increasingly suspect that you will need to turn to fish or vegetation. Fish is the last resort. The scales scare you. And the eyes - you shudder - they make you uncomfortable. Buggy and jelly looking, it makes you prickly inside.

Wild cornstalks and pumpkins seem out of the question, but you should be able to identify a fruit if it came down to it. Hopefully. Berries seem a likely possibility.

You are not quite sure how much longer your lack of hunger or need for food will last, but you are not willing to test it.

Instead, you push forward and continue to explore. You come back home only once – to check up on Toft, who is fine and has adorably decided to nap inside your hut, and to drink some water – before venturing back into the wild.

You check the traps again. Empty. It is disheartening.

Everything is sore when the sun begins its descent. The day has been long, but you continue to push onwards.

When the grass differs in certain areas, you kneel down and dig around. Sometimes it is just odd-looking grass. Other times you find white bulb looking things beneath the dirt. They smell very little of anything. You leave those ones away.

It would be a very good day indeed if you somehow managed to find a potato plant, but you do not.

The sound of a running stream fills your ears. When you find it, the water looks murky and deep. If your sense of direction is right, the stream should lead into the pond-river next to the clay bank you found. You cannot see any fish from the surface, but it would not harm you to make a net-like trap. You would need to find a narrow space to set it up. Spearing fish will _not_ be happening. 

(the thought of acquiring parasites via fish puts you further off the idea)

Changing directions leads you to flatter terrain and sparse patches of flowers. You do not recognise any of them. Understanding how easily a pretty flower can be poisonous, you turn away. Your need for tea is not so great that you will bypass your self-preservation instinct. 

You walk not for much longer, but the remaining light wains fast. It is becoming increasingly difficult to see. Soon you will be left in total darkness, and a jolt of fear sends your skin tingling. You clench the spear tightly. 

Maybe it was a good idea to go home earlier… persistence is a good thing, but not when it just brings you more trouble like this…

You get an idea. It is not a particularly favourable idea, but it could work.

Staring hard at your barely visible hand, you purse your lips.

You are cold. It is dark. You cannot see. There are probably some very wild animals in this forest that are very hungry and salivating at thought of an easy meal.

You. You are the easy meal. You do not want to be. Camping out in this wilderness is not a pleasant option.

Right eye twitching, you stare longer and harder at your hand. Almost menacingly.

It is small at first. A tiny glow; a flicker. A quick, bright snap that disappears as quickly as it came.

But the longer you think about your predicament, the longer you _want_ , or something – _anything_ – the heat begins to linger. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly through your mouth, like you are fanning the embers in a kindling, a roll building in your stomach, and–

A flame crackles. It hovers in your palm. The forest around you is illuminated yellow and orange.

You swallow. Your proclivity to fire is a very handy thing indeed. Too handy. This… _power_ , you fear it. It is unnatural. Not right. It does not hold up to any level of science or logic that you know of. It is unknown, and that is what scares you the most. That it is something you have never seen before. Not that it is dangerous, because there are so many things that are already dangerous without being able to spontaneously combust. Humans are creative like that, and not always for the good. Given the right tools and material, you could make something ten times the hazard that a small fire may be.

It scares you because you do not know how it works.

What are its boundaries? What more can it do? How is it controlled, how is it stopped? What causes it? Why cause it? Why you?

Why you? And if anyone else, why them too?

You have so many questions, but there is nobody to answer them. It is just you here. In this forest, alone, with a – a thing you do not know the origin of.

But you cannot afford to live in fear of it. You do not want to. It would be a very long and distressing life. And so, the only way to overcome it is to understand it. You need to learn it, study it, control it.

Research is not fast. There will be a lot of rigorous testing and experimenting, and it is highly likely this will take a very, very long time. The conclusions you make could be right. They could also be very wrong. And maybe you will never find the truth you are looking for. That is the way of science, unfortunately.

But you will accept it.

You will accept it.

Feeling spurred on, the flame grows bigger and hotter. Brighter. Your motivation feeds it. It is alive in your hand. Unsettling as it is, it is almost… endearing. Almost. This is the first step.

You turn on your heels and head back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: once again, thank you all so much for your thoughts! I really wasn't expecting this fic to get any attention because I know how different it is even from most MGIT stories out there. Like yall, I know I have plans to meet canon eventually, but that's eventually. I hope you all stick around for it. I'm kind of curious to hear why you guys gave this once a chance? I'm grateful, but just a little confused i guess aslkdj??
> 
> you could almost say that nothings really happening in this story right now. I feel like I'm writing a Minecraft survival video game experience but in dragon age, which is really fun. I mean there's a plot and I've actually outlined chapters for this fic, which is surprising because I've never actually done that before but yeah
> 
> anyways hope you guys enjoyed this one! I wrote this one really fast, it started different, with the paper already done and our first page/entry/to do list, but that felt clunky. Think I might just post any diary entry style/notes/reports in a companion fic if it's not important enough to go in here. Most methods, conclusions etc tho will be written out as it's happening or written as thoughts in this story tho anyways


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